Home Again!

                          Many German police cars looked like this at that time.

            “That’s not ours,” I said. My heart beat faster, and the pastry in my stomach roiled. Maybe Jesus didn’t want me to go home again. Maybe He didn’t love me, after all. I grabbed Josefa’s hand, the only support I had left in this world. Josefa squeezed my hand and started crying again.

“Don’t cry,” the policeman said. He didn’t seem too upset. “I know of another place where your family probably is. Let’s go.”

He started the car and off we went. This time I watched the streets. I didn’t feel like admiring the stars anymore. What would happen to me if the policeman didn’t find our caravan home? Maybe I would die, since I was such a bad girl and couldn’t even take care of my sister. My eyes burned and tears threatened to come again. Then I remembered my prayer, and how peaceful I felt when it was over. Jesus would help. I sighed and closed my eyes. “Please, let us find our home,” I whispered so Josefa couldn’t hear. A sense of safety surrounded me.

The car went around a dark corner onto a dirt road. At the edge of the car’s lights, I made out two people running toward us. I thought they looked like our parents, but for a moment I wasn’t sure. I gripped Josefa’s hand harder. However, when they came into the light, it was our Vati and Mutti.

“There are my parents,” I yelled. Everything was okay now. I hadn’t hurt anyone, and the police had even helped me. Mutti would be mad, but that was okay, as long as I was home again.

The policeman stopped the car and said, “All right! I told you I’d find your family.”

He stepped from the car and talked to Vati. I opened the door and got out. Josefa scrambled after me.

Mutti bent and put her hands on Josefa’s shoulders. “Are you all right? God, I was so worried.”

I stood in front of the car, hands folded over my chest. Mutti let go of Josefa, turned to me and touched my face. “What happened? Where have you been?” she said. “We worried out of our minds. Vati and I were just on our way to the police.”

 “We got lost,” I said.

The policeman said good bye and shook our hands. “It was a pleasure to be able to help you two ladies.”

Josefa giggled.

Mutti gazed at me, frowned and shook her head. “Come on,” she said. She didn’t seem too mad. We scurried after her and Vati, back to our caravan home.

“We already ate,” Mutti said. “It’s late, but I’ve saved you some food. Hurry and eat and go to bed.”

“The nice policemen gave us some pastries,” I said. “I’m not hungry.”

“Me neither,” Josefa said.

Finally back in our warm home, we took off our clothes and washed our faces in the kitchen bowl before we went to bed.

Safely in my bed, I folded my hands and whispered a heartfelt “Thank you,” to Jesus.

Pastries for two Hungry Little Girls

Tasty Pastries for Little Sonja and Josefa - The Amerikaner on top and the Berliner on Bottom!

Ever since my experience in Wiesbaden, when I was nine, I liked the police. That night, in the warm police station, the policeman didn't seem mad.

He smiled when he asked me where we lived. I told him I didn’t know. He shook his head and led us into another, smaller room.

A brown paper bag stood on a large table with six chairs around it. Along the wall, under the window, a heater hissed and clanked. Warmth radiated from it. The policeman helped us take off our coats and told us to sit in two of the chairs.

“You must be hungry,” he said. “Would you like a pastry?”

Josefa and I nodded in unison. My mouth watered. The policeman allowed us to choose a pastry from the brown paper bag. Josefa found a Berliner, and the bag even held an Amerikaner for me. It tasted sweet and flaky, and I swallowed and took another bite, looking around me. Everything would turn out all right now. The policeman ate a pastry too. While we ate, other policemen entered, took pastries and talked to our policeman.

When we finished eating, he said, “Do you feel better now?”

We nodded.

“Now tell us what your Vati does and how you live.”

“We are from the carnival,” I said.

“Carnival? I didn’t know there was a carnival this late in the year.”

“We just arrived here. We are in winter quarters,” I said.

“There is another caravan home too, and pack-trailers,” Josefa added.

“Mmm,” the policeman said. “I think I know a few places.” He got up from his seat. “Let’s go and find your family.”

He helped us from the chairs and into our coats. Our small hands in his big ones, he escorted us to a green and white police car. We drove in the dark. The large lighted road gave way to smaller, darker streets. Soon we couldn’t see much of the neighborhoods we drove through. I leaned against the window and craned my neck. I saw the moon, a shallow scythe, and a few stars. How pretty the dark sky was! Jesus lived up there, and He had helped me find a way home. I was sure the policeman would take us straight home now.

The car stopped. When we got out, we saw a lighted caravan home in the dark. I started smiling, but then realized it wasn’t our home.

I want to go Home!

I don't remember exactly, but the police station in Wiesbaden may have looked like this one.

Our caravan was the only home I knew when I was young, and that night I needed to find a way home with my sister on our first day of winter quarters in Wiesbaden. It never occurred to me to doubt that God would help me. After all these years, I still remember my anxiety and the simple trust I had in Jesus to be there for me.

When the stranger on the road said he couldn’t help us, my tired and cold knees grew weak. Please, dear Jesus, I thought, I want to go home.

I opened my mouth not knowing what to say, when the stranger added, “Come with me. The police will know what to do.”

Gratefully, I hurried after him, Josefa’s hand moored in mine. Surely this man knew what to do to find our home again. Maybe he was an angel, sent by Jesus. We followed him down the street to a police station.

He opened the door and I felt a sense of relief as we entered a well-lit, warm room. The man talked to a policeman for a while, pointing to us. He turned, smiled at us, and said, “The nice policeman will take care of you.” He tipped his hat and proceeded to the door, his shoes clicking on the tile. When he opened the door and left, a cold blast of air made me shiver all over again.

I gripped Josefa’s hand harder, turned, and stared at the policeman. The police help people, I thought. But a shudder went down my back, anyway. I looked down. Maybe he would be mad at me for being so stupid and losing my way and not taking care of my sister.

Still no Way Home

After my little prayer to the Jesus I had learned about in school the year before, I felt less frightened than before. I looked around, searching the dark street on that fateful evening in Wiesbaden. 

Shoppers rushed by. A tall man slowed and watched us from under the brim of his hat, then stopped.

“What’s going on here?” he asked. “Where are your parents?”

“We are lost,” I said.

Josefa cried again.

“Where do you live?” the man asked.

“I don’t know,” I said and swallowed my tears. “We just got here. We live in our caravan home.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“I think it’s that way,” I said and pointed forward.
           The man looked in the direction I pointed and shook his head.

“I can’t help you,” he said.